I’ve got to sew buttons onto the sunshine. It’s a lot like trying to define myself in the language of flowers. The roses are red from pilfering the blood from my veins. A red umbrella taps into my wrist and the rain is as rubies glittering in the uncooperative sunlight. Feel the burn. Not communism. Asphalt. All of my childhood days not running barefoot have caught up to me, and I must pay for this particular batch of sin all at once. Lay off the iron. Bring on the buttons.
Tag: poetry
Clear Concealer
I wear an identity of glass like it was some sort of designer bag. All my ideas splatter like paint balls against the fluorescent spaces of my spiced up brain. The light lingers lovingly over my porcelain, ghostly skin. I match whatever environment I need to camouflage in by being transparent and thereby concealing the truest, bluest parts of me. In truth I hate it, but everyone tells me glass will be rare and valuable soon, so I better keep the cracking coat of clear concealer.
Liquid Rainbows
Patron saint of leprosy and lepidoptera, please pray for me. Your prayers are perfumed prettiness in the heavenly atelier of our most brilliant Lord and Savor. Who made the colors that coat our lives? Who inscribed code into our flesh and blood? None but Him, His hands soaked in liquid rainbows. My skin is getting old. My face is going viral. My face is a virus, a label I wear to hide my soul shivering in her thin blue shift, nipples cutting against the cold like diamonds. Faces are a contoured means to a flattened end in the catalog of human memory.
Woolen Fortress of January
In the woolen fortress of January, gunmetal skies and home chilled on the rocks, bathed by the sea. I was born to granite and snow. The birch trees lining the lanes of my memories have a thousand eyes peering out of them. All of them look into me, red eyed windows to the abyss staring at my soul and counting the wrinkles. January is an old, brittle friend whose joints croak in chorus with mine along the craggy coast. Though January leaves me every year, I can never seem to disentangle myself from his cold, lingering fingers.
Prayer of Tearing
Splitting wood, splitting atoms, splitting hairs. The world is falling apart from the bumbling, malevolent force of stupidity. I drank my dreams and burned my ambitions like a sweet incense. Mother Mary, help me to be more like you. Soon my sins will hollow me from the inside, and my name will be torn asunder.
Holographic Sea
My voice is like butter – high in fat, churned like a holographic sea, the fish glitching out in technicolor. The red ribbon that wraps around my waist was given to me for this journey. Howling, my ego holding her elbow after smacking it on reality. Reality has fish eyes. I will sail across an ocean for my love and give him sugar and sea.
Smellevision
I sniff my smellevision 4 days in the future, and God embroiders my backbone for me. The future is all geometry and piss poor planning. My cotton hands are soaked with sunsweat. The leaves of grass drip with it. I know I have to survive tetris as a sphere and it won’t be easy. Two demons play jenga in my front yard, and no matter how they play, I lose.
Failure to Grow
Clandestine stars twinkle guiltily. Here even light feels accused. In my old house, a ghost reading Kant. God is in my garden lamenting the lack of roses. Spiteful space radiates cold. I carry a 50 pound sack of flowers everywhere I go as punishment for failure to grow. A ballerina dances to the sweet music of the moon that only she can hear. Black velvet night cradles our secrets to sleep.
The Chasm
What lies between the roiling world and the cool white light of heaven but the chasm in my gray heart? Sunshine knocked on my door once. I bit him. I trudge across a wounded woods twice daily hauling water for the perturbed ghosts that bathe in my yard. Nothing is ever enough. Somewhere is a heart shaped key with my name emblazoned in gold, and an idiot is shoving it into the wrong lock until it breaks. Heaven is like a squirrel feeding me nuts on the porch. It’s amazing but I’m probably dreaming. My soul struggles for resuscitation, and my man puts his lips on my broken person and breathes.
Modernism and Post Modernism
I make love to Modernism in the back of a black cat museum. Then I dump him and deflower post modernism, which is a whore in rayon. After that the clouds follow me back and forth from home to the store. My clonopin can breathe on its own and has 20/20 vision I can only envy. I am sick to death of navel gazing and semi autonomous whispers. What comes after contemporary art? Is it fudge or shit? We put visionaries eyes out and toast to the promising future of the ambitious dark.
Miniature Moon 